


Your Shadow

by ADarlingWrites



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hybristophilia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Wet Dream, autassassinophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 16:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADarlingWrites/pseuds/ADarlingWrites
Summary: I will be your shadowI will follow youNever let you go





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> It's been almost five years since Michael Myers murdered three teenagers and attacked Laurie Strode. After being taken into custody, Dr. Samuel Loomis refused to be his doctor again, leaving Smith's Grove to pursue other endeavors, and leaving Dr. Ranbir Sartain to take the helm. However, a past patient of Dr. Loomis returns: you. In his absence, you are reassigned to Sartain, your records and Loomis' notes from your past sessions handed over as well. Your return to Smith's Grove stirs intrigue, and Michael's new psychiatrist will do whatever it takes to elicit a reaction from Michael: including using you.
> 
> Unfortunately, or fortunately, for you, the Shape's interest is piqued.  
>    
>  Inspired by IAMX's [Stalker](https://open.spotify.com/track/0JJE1aNNjAyPBQgyzjzgQh?si=Sag7oez1TLSBIIqAn5rmKA).
> 
> **_____________________________________________________________________________________________**
> 
> This AU follows the Final Timeline where Dr. Sartain is introduced, with major influences from the Halloween Novelization by Richard Curtis, which explored Michael's childhood and internal thoughts more closely, and very few from Rob Zombie's Halloween. This means that The Curse of the Thorn is non-existent in this AU, and I'll leave for the readers to decide if the voices in Michael's head are due to supernatural forces or mental health disturbances, just to keep the line between the supernatural and psychological blurred.
> 
> You, the reader, are an art teacher at Haddonfield High School, struggling to cope with the stress of her job and her past issues with her mental health, and as a person with mental health problems as well, I will do my best to write this with tact and sensitivity. If any of these themes are triggering, please do refrain from reading this story further. Your well-being comes first!

**PROLOGUE**

Soft puffs of breath kiss your cheek as the rising sun spills through the cracks of the dark blinds. A leg dangles over the edge of the bed, inviting the bogeyman living under your bed to grab it, if there was any. Eyes still heavy with fatigue, you roll to your side and pull the blanket over your head, settling in a curled position.

A needy purr reaches your ears.

“Pumpkin, my alarm didn’t even go off yet,” you groan, yawning as you turned to your cat. Swatting him in amusement when he takes your fingers in his mouth in a gentle but persistent bite, you sit up and rub the sleep off of your eyes. Peering at the window, a soft groan escapes your lips as you register the faint sunlight streaming inside your room. The bedside clock set at the end table just beside the bed says the time is five fifty-one in the morning.

Leaving the warmth of your bed, you stand up to mark your calendar as another day begins. September 9, 1983. The school year is just beginning, yet you already feel exhausted.

After your morning ablutions, you head to the kitchen to prepare a small breakfast for yourself, consisting of scrambled eggs, toast, and a slice of apple, served with coffee, brewed and prepared the way you liked. While gnawing on a piece of bread, your ears perk to the sound of the telephone ringing, and still chewing the food in your mouth, you stand up from your dining chair to answer it.

Picking up the receiver, you mumble a muffled “Hello?”

The voice on the other line says your name with endearment.

“Oh, good morning auntie,” you say, swallowing the chewed bread to speak more clearly.

“Good morning! I hope I’m not calling too early,” she says in her mellifluous voice.

“Not at all! How are you?”

“I’m doing fine, sweetie. It’ll be a while before I return. This university in Michigan is offering me a new teaching position the next semester,” she excitedly declares, and you smile and chuckle under your breath.

“That’s very good news. I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank you love. Though I have to admit, I miss teaching in Haddonfield High School. Speaking of which, how goes your teaching job there? Are the kids giving you any trouble?”

A soft sigh bubbles from your lips. “No, the teens are doing fine. It’s the principal that I have something to gripe about.”

“Oh, Mr. Walton has always been a pain in the ass,” you hear from the other end of the line, making you giggle. Dear old aunt never curses, save for a few occasions. “I wish Mrs. Laski never retired. Oh but, I don’t want to keep you, dear. Go on and prepare for the day, I’ll call you again this weekend.”

“Of course auntie. I love you, take care.”

“I love you too.”

With a soft click, your phone call ends there. Returning to the kitchen, you scamper when you see Pumpkin attempting to steal your eggs, while your other cat, Midnight, sits at the base the table, eyeing you with her round, orange peepers. Taking the round, ginger cat, you put him down on the floor, ready to reprimand him.

“Pumpkin, you greedy cat, that isn’t for you!”

As if he understood every word you said, he gives you a forlorn whine, and Midnight joins him in begging. After feeding your feline companions, you scarf your food down and checks the wall clock for the time. Six forty-five. Perfect.

It usually takes just fifteen minutes for you to reach Haddonfield High School, and your work day starts at seven thirty. With nowhere else to go from the weight of your student loans, your aunt let you live in her house when you started your job as an art teacher mid-way into the last school year to replace old Mr. Gomez due to his retirement, your credentials and your aunt’s connections to the school granting you an easy entrance despite being freshly out of art school at the age of twenty-one. If only your folks can see how well you’re doing now.

After wrapping a soft red scarf around your neck, checking if everything you need is in your bag, and locking the door, you start your short walk to the high school, strolling with no rush. Leaves are still green and fresh at this time in Illinois, but you’re already excited for the earthy reds and oranges that will greet you when the season reaches its peak, and a soft breeze tousles your hair ever so slightly; autumn is such a beautiful season and the artist in you can appreciate the vivid colors the seasons have.

Stopping in your tracks when you pass by the decrepit house in Lampkin Lane, a chill sweeps through your body. It’s the old Myers residence.

Though Michael Myers is safely behind bars in Smith’s Grove, his legacy still haunts Haddonfield.

A quiet suburban town, Haddonfield is seemingly safe and wholesome until you learn of the violent history it has, for in 1978, Michael returned to Haddonfield, murdering three teenagers in one night and seriously injuring Laurie Strode, the only one who survived his night of terror. Only sixteen years old when that happened, just a year younger than Laurie Strode herself, you’re quite shaken by the news. To think that you have been passing her by the corridors in school without knowing that she would befall such a fate made your head spin.

During that gruesome night, a small celebration held by your aunt prevented you from roaming the streets and playing pranks like normal teens would do. Sleeping soundly after playing with your younger cousins with a belly full of candy and pumpkin pie, you had awoken to your aunt shaking you awake, warning you to lock all windows and doors, and when you questioned why she was distressed, she told you of the bloodbath at Lampkin Lane. You can’t forget the fear on your cousins’ faces and the way they clung on to you when you locked yourselves in their bedroom.

Which begs the question: would you end up like Bob, Annie, and Lynda if you haven’t stayed home? How would you face the Boogeyman? Your aunt’s ex-husband, a coroner in Haddonfield Police Department, told you of the injuries they received. Would Michael Myers plunge a knife at your chest? Or stab you in the neck, lunging from behind? Or would he squeeze the living daylights out of you with a telephone cord, or perhaps with his bare hands? Shuddering, the last thought made you reach for your throat with a soft stroke.

But the 1978 Halloween murders isn’t the only tragedy haunting Haddonfield. Fifteen years before the incident, on the same night in 1963, Michael Myers, looking like a charming little angel dressed in a clown costume murdered his sister with an eight-inch butcher knife, leaving at least thirty-one stab wounds littering her body. An aghast Mr. and Mrs. Myers found Judith Myers lying in a pool of her own blood, her eyes wide open, the light and life drained from them. You cringe as you recall the details your aunt’s ex-husband told you about how gruesome the teen’s injuries were. Multiple slashes cut her arm in her feeble attempt to protect herself, stab wounds to the breast, her belly, and even her groin… Your thighs involuntarily squeeze together in at the thought of a ten-inch butcher knife pressed near yours.

Whether it was out of discomfort or titillation, you are unable to distinguish it.

Oh, how would everyone would react if they found out that an art teacher at Haddonfield High had a death fetish?


	2. I

**CHAPTER I**

_I know you’re aching to be saved_

_From all the bullshit and banality_

Time seems to pass so swiftly, another school day had passed and you are already tidying up your desk. After making sure that your students’ submissions pile neatly in your folder, you put your scarf back on and grab your bag, striding outside the faculty room and finally letting your shoulders relax with some difficulty. Thankful that it’s a weekend tomorrow, you had a passing thought that you can finally have some time for yourself. Being a new teacher had its stresses; you’re still getting the hang of preparing lesson plans, managing your students, grading submissions, and other mundane responsibilities a teacher has.

On most days, life seems more stressful, including this one. In the middle of a lesson, a fight between two teens from the football team broke out outside the room. The hall monitor is absent, so you had to intervene, surprising them with a show of strength as you tore the two seething teenagers apart, even restraining the other. When your students asked you how you learned to do that, you told them of the self defense classes you took in high school, and how they should take their gym class seriously if they want to learn that. Idly, you remember that you took that class with Laurie Strode and wonder if she ever got to apply what she learned from their gym teacher during the attack on Halloween night.

During lunch, the sound of your co-workers’ chewing grated at your ears while you wrote up a report of the incident at your desk, irritation rising as each minute passed. Being the person of authority present at the moment, Counselor Dawkins summoned you to his office as two overbearing mothers exchanged heated words, trying to shift the blame at the kid that wasn’t theirs. Nothing fruitful came out of the confrontation, only leaving everyone exasperated and tired of the bickering, including you. Counselor Dawkins thought it best to suspend the two from the Haddonfield Huskers to teach them a lesson, and your head was throbbing as one of the mothers continued her rant about the school compromising her son’s future football career. In a fit of exhausted frustration, you tell her that she needs to pay more attention to her son to figure out what led him to exhibit this kind of behavior. Suffice to say, she went from mad to absolutely furious, but before the situation can go out of hand, Counselor Dawkins escorted you outside the room.

In the afternoon, Principal Walton approached you to discuss the “disturbing” artwork one of your students turned in, the concern raised by one uptight parent who discovered the drawing in his daughter’s desk. Holding back a witty retort (telling him that if they thought that was disturbing, they haven’t seen the filth in your little black sketchbook, to be precise), you opted to listen to the man voice his concerns. After explaining that art can be a therapeutic way for the kids to express themselves, Mr. Walton bringing up your time being a patient in Smith’s Grove Sanitarium in your youth made you scowl, the conversation souring at its mention. You left the office with a slam on the door.

As you walked home with frayed nerves, you recall your time being a patient brought about by the aggravating exchange between the two of you.

In your troubled teenage years, you were willing to do anything that made you feel, be it from riding roller coasters or almost drowning yourself in your bathtub, as long as it diverts your attention from the ever-growing depression that looms over your head. Your parents thought it was rowdy behavior, but with your aunt’s insistence, they finally took you to Smith’s Grove when you were thirteen, where Dr. Samuel Loomis listened to your concerns.

During the uneventful trip home, you passed by the Myers house again, morbid thoughts from the morning flooding back into your head, arousal coming back with a vengeance.

Dr. Loomis had a proper, scientific-sounding word for your death fetish: autassassinophilia. During one of your visits, he tells you that the development of your strange paraphilia might have been linked to your thrill-seeking ways. And while you still do have them, due to the therapy sessions with Dr. Loomis, you managed to curb it. Though you’ve learned healthier coping habits when a depressive episode strikes, excitement at the face of danger and the prospect of your life being at risk still lurks deep within your psyche.

In the years when you were Loomis’ patient, you’ve had shreds of interaction with an older boy with dirty blonde hair almost obscuring his entire face, a square jaw, and piercing, deep blue eyes that can burn holes through your skin; they were eyes filled with an indescribable, primal hunger. Never speaking, his gaze seemed to be transfixed on something that isn’t there. You faintly remember making the mistake of taking the last slice of pumpkin pie while lining up for lunch, apologizing quickly and giving the plate of pie to him. A strong hand gripped your wrist, the warmth on your face spreading like wildfire and a strange stirring starting in your belly; witnessing the interaction, a nurse dragged you away from him, face pale and beads of sweat forming on her brow. Later, you found out that the boy is Michael Myers, the little boy who killed his older sister, and the stirring in your belly grew stronger. A week later, the said nurse had minor burns after an incident at the cafeteria.

Neither your parents nor Dr. Loomis allowed him within range of you again.

Memories of that gaze made you wonder if Myers gave his victims such a stare behind the shadowed eyeholes of his mask. In your formative years, you imagine those intense eyes boring into you while strong hands pin you against your favorite bed sheets. Goodness, how would Dr. Loomis have reacted if you told him that Michael is someone you fantasize about? How would your parents react? They will probably think you’ve gone mad and tell Loomis to lock you in the loony bin.

Doing your best to repress morbid thoughts that resurfaced at the moment, you continue walking, snapping your head away from the Myers house.

The evening is uneventful; Midnight is sleeping in her usual spot atop the wall-mounted bookcase in your study room (which was your cousins’ former bedroom). Fresh from a bath, you had your evening tea the way you like it, and Pumpkin was purring in your lap as you viewed your students’ drawings, a smile of pride blooming on your lips when you take note of their improvement. After grading the class’ homework, you took out your little black book of sketches and sharpened a 2B pencil with a box cutter, honing it until it’s pointed enough to draw crisp lines.

With masterful strokes, you sketch your heart away. Figures of people’s bodies littered the page, and after some time, the sketches became darker in nature, such as soft forms in erotic and vulnerable positions, and stone hands gripping an imaginary neck drawn with attention to detail. During your past sessions, you had shown some of your drawings to Dr. Loomis and he appraised them objectively. Before you can work out a plan on how to deal with this quirk of yours, however, your family moved away due to the Halloween murders.

Five years later, you’re back in Haddonfield. Though you’ve visited other doctors in the gap, none of them were as effective as Dr. Loomis, and you’ve never opened to the others about your obscure problem in the fear of being judged. As someone who had been a regular patient in your youth, you’ve heard stories from other patients about how inhumane other psychiatric hospitals can be with their patients, and how doctors and aides would treat the people who need their care similarly to inmates.

Humming in introspection, you wonder if you should start seeing a shrink again. Perhaps one-on-one talk with a doctor, and maybe group therapy sessions can help you manage your stress and recurring depression better. Years had passed since your last visit; should you go back now?

Cool wind blows from the window, the chill breaking you from your reverie. Giving one last glance at the page of you sketchbook, you decide to call it quits for the night. Pumpkin even thinks so, jumping from your lap and into the bed. After your hands have rested and the graphite from your fingertips scrubbed away, you hop into bed, the tea helping you fall deep into slumber.

That night, you had a dream of piercing blue eyes emerging from shadowed eyeholes of a bleach-white mask. Dreaming of a cool blade gliding against overheated skin, your thighs press together in wanton need. Whimpers escape your lips as a cruel hand pins your arms above your head, the other reaching for your neck, squeezing with inhuman strength.

Awakening in a lustful haze, the sun is pouring in through the blinds again, a sweet ache blooming between your legs.


End file.
